Epiphanies
by jkwasher
Summary: S3E8 "Harvest," with References to S3E7, "Population 25." The moment which redefined the relationship between Walt Longmire and Vic Moretti.


**Epiphanies**

**Set after S3E7 Pop 25 and Before S3E8 Harvest**

**Author's note: This is not so much a story as brief backstories and impressions which transform the nature of Walt and Vic's relationship in the first few seconds of "Harvest." Only the television writers know what will happen in S4, and this allows for the fact that so much must still be resolved. I only know that I personally believe Happy Endings are possible…dunno about Walt and Vic in the show and books—again, only the writers and author know, but I sure will continue to hope for that. Own nothing here, etc, etc.**

**I am working on additional chapters for "Survival," and a separate multi-chapter offering, "Missing Scenes." (I know, catchy title, but it does clearly explain the premise.)**

**Of course reviews, helpful criticism, questions welcome.**

**I am posting this on Valentine's Day…with hope.**

**#1 VIC**

She sat trying to control the trembling which still took her time to time, hunched over in a chair in the exam room, what the deputies sometimes referred to in irony as T_he Wife's Chair_. One or other of them had occupied it too many times with Walt. He seemed to be a frequent flyer in this very room.

In her shaking hands, she clutched his coat and hat. Whorls of blood still stained her hands, left from trying to stop _him_ bleeding. Bloodborne pathogens had been ignored last night—she should have had gloves on, but the only thing that mattered to her at that moment was stopping the bleeding. Pressing down on his wound had saved her hands from shaking then, as uncomfortable as that must have been for him.

The bleeding had slowed, before stopping pretty quickly. The EMTs had taken over from there and devised a temporary pad for it until they could get to the hospital. The smears of blood on her hands and the bruising and raw red areas on her wrists and face were all that remained as testimony to her ordeal. Good thing no one could see inside her, because she _felt_ like hell, too.

Her head still pounded although the nausea had subsided, but it taken her multiple times since her beating, several in the survivalists' cellar, and once in front of Walt. Puking your guts out in front of your boss never feels like a professional thing to do in any job scenario. He had tried to get an ambulance to take her back after that, but she had refused, and although unarmed, hoped she was formidable enough for him not to even _think_ that she would leave him again. Leaving in that piece of shit Granada with fucking Ed Gorski—_Ed Gorski_, of all people!—as Walt's _ally_, driving her out of that hellhole, had been bad enough, but leaving _him, Walt_, alone to deal with her mess…far worse.

Walt had put his life on the line for her last night.

For _her_. She could no longer deny it.

She thought she probably _looked_ as bad as she felt, but had not yet had the courage to look in a mirror, nor the inclination to leave Walt until he was mended and headed to his cabin for some much-needed rest. The cabin actually sounded like heaven to _her_, despite the unpleasant memories of Lizzie's outburst there.

That fact that Walt's cabin was more appealing depended on if Sean was at _their_ home, where she was pretty sure it would be a frosty reception. Her behavior had been unquestionably not that of loyal wife nor loyal employee, but more of bereft _lover_ in the last 12 hours.

First, she had tried to protect Sean and been Ms. Tough Gal with him, trying to explain to him what was likely to happen when Chance had the information he wanted. Sean was so naïve, but of course, he had never been in crisis situations or experienced the perps she had in the course of her job.

Then, out of the blue, after shots above, after just learning that Walt was looking for them, that body bag came hurtling down toward them, and she had just lost what little control was left in her…bat-shit crazy did not begin to define it.

Later, she had laughed in hysterical relief when she learned Walt was there, and not captive nor killed. She had once heard Lucian compare Walt to a bullet that couldn't be taken back once he got on the trail of something, and she had watched Walt do exactly that for three years. For those reasons, she had a lot of faith in him rescuing them as she could not have any faith in Sean.

Then, presumably on the way to safety, she had _abandoned_ Sean _alone _in the back of the Granada and raced back up the canyon in Walt's truck. All she had heard in her head all the way had been, "This is the choice." In her head, it was the _only_ choice, really.

And lastly, here she was with Walt, _not_ with Sean, until the last drop of anything remotely resembling _duty_ was carried out. Truth was, she _still_ did not want to leave Walt, and instead wanted desperately to go home with _him_, but she knew it was not an option—not because he had said anything, of course he had _not, _but because they were back in Durant, and she knew that in Durant, it would _not _be okay. An orderly had said her husband had been treated and left the hospital before she and Walt had arrived. That made her feel even worse…that Sean had abandoned her at the hospital to get back at her, or something equally dramatic.

No, her own home would not be a happy place, today.

Dr. Weston finished with Walt, said something to her about coming back if the headaches continued, but her eyes only left Walt for a moment. Her finger began tracing the slit in his heavy suede jacket caused by the bullet furrowing along his skin. She swallowed, sniffed. She was really _trying_ not to cry again, but...

And then Walt was standing, putting on his shirt, so she stood, too, to hand him his coat. She knew she had to relinquish the coat, it was just that holding it with the rent sleeve showing, she could _see_ the minimum of damage done, that he really _was_, and _would be_ all right.

That was in direct opposition to what she had expected to find upon her return up the canyon. After dueling with the crazy survivalist, she had been prepared for the worst, that she would need a body bag for Walt. The possibilities had whirled in her head: The guy might have had somebody in the bushes to ambush Walt after the rest left—Walt might have missed—Chance might be a crack shot. They hadn't helped her head, which was already revolving on its own, and her brief trip up the canyon had not been a happy one. She had no idea what would have happened if Walt had gone down. Professionalism might have kicked in, initially, but she had no idea how the future would have looked that had been the case. If she had found a gun, she might have taken Chance out, herself, and any fucking henchmen he had kept back for ambush.

Of course she had not been able to call for backup and help. Her own phone and gun had been in Chance's compound, and when she had inspected the truck, Walt's rifle was not in there. She suspected Gorski might have something to do with that, but she had gone back up the canyon anyway, unarmed, crazies there or not, because _Walt_ was there. It didn't matter whether she came out alive, she hadn't expected to survive leaving the compound the first time, had already resigned herself to that.

And now…

"It'll be okay, just a little needle and thread, and I'll be back to normal." His voice was so very gentle, and she had not heard him speak like that often. She had overheard him talking to Horse like that after roping her, and sometimes with children like Polina's sister, but never had he been like that with her while she'd been deputy. She must be a literal head case, now.

A solitary sniff betrayed her, and she discreetly swiped at her eye with her free hand.

"Yeah," was all she said, holding his coat, maintaining what she hoped was a professional distance.

He extended the left hand for his coat, took a tentative step, then another, placing his injured arm along her forearm and meeting her eyes, as though asking permission. Ever-so-gently he closed his fingers around her wrist. Her eyes met his, those eyes she sometimes thought she could read in at least a Walt-ish version of sign language…he stepped closer, put his good arm around her and pulled her in tight.

His scent, antiseptic, sweat, leather, maybe a hint of horse, enveloped her, and everything just crumbled, she fell into his arms. _Nothing_ mattered anymore—Chance, Sean, Durant—all that mattered was holding him, clutching him to her, as the tears finally fell unabated.

Time stopped, she did not know for how long. She found herself clutching the back of his shirt, and she realized that she had been living a lie for the last six years. She had told Walt once, at Chris Sublette's, that she had married the wrong person, and told Sean earlier that same evening that she was "all Walt had," but neither man had apparently been listening. She hoped this told Walt everything he had not heard, before.

It had all been there, right in front of her face. _Walt. _It was Walt then and Walt now, but what about the _future?_

Nothing mattered to her, now, including the disparities in their ages, that he was her boss, his love of Martha, Martha's killer and all that baggage—or hers with Sean, history with Gorski, the IA investigation—or anything _else_, anymore. She had unexpectedly fallen, _hard_, knew that this, as possibly nothing before had been, was love, and that she unreservedly loved _him_.

**#2 WALT**

I've never been good around tears. They usually wash away any good intentions on my part. If Martha cried, I turned to jello. If Cady cried, she could twist me around her finger any which way, but this…was different. This was _much_ _worse._

Vic—my deputy and arguably my partner, was crying in my arms. Me, sheriff and boss, trying not to hold her, trying not to comfort her, would not work. I could not help myself to hold her, and now my hands stroked her hair and rubbed her back, marveling and indulging in all the tiny individual freedoms I had not allowed myself for three years.

A more rational part of me acknowledged that I would comfort even Horse if she was terrified, but with Vic, the comforting was all _different_. She had been in harm's way partially because I would not share my investigation with her. I had shut her out, gotten her kidnapped, and almost gotten her killed.

Then, although injured and heading to comparative safety with Sean and Ed Gorski, unarmed, she had brought my truck back up the canyon to rescue me, leaving her own husband in the car, and that loose cannon Gorski who-knew-where. She hadn't even known if Chance would be there to finish her off when she arrived, if he had already done me in.

Gorski still bothered me. I almost wanted to offer Gorski an undercover job for me, to figure out what the _heck _was going on in Denver, since it didn't seem like I would ever get down there, and most of all to keep tabs on his 20. It seemed like just _out there, _he was a rather vindictive Peter Pan-like shadow who might reappear at the least opportune time.

"We were good together, Vic and me," Gorski had said. I think he must have just meant the sex, because after working with her three years, I remained convinced that she was loyal and loving and did not have a deceitful bone in her body unless she was protecting someone. Like me, for instance, from Gorski's retribution, but I was pretty sure she had cared more for Gorski than he had her. If you love someone, you don't lie, deceive, or stalk them. That's not love.

After we arrived at the hospital, I had her checked out first. That she let me have my way spoke volumes. Although she refused to ask me to stick around, I didn't go anywhere, even during the inevitable X-rays. Vic had then insisted on staying with me to get stitched up, sitting in the Wife's Chair. Martha had sat there numerous times for various injuries to me in addition to all Cady's childhood illnesses and occasional injuries. It didn't say much for my career that I had been to Durant Memorial more times than Cady, and knew its layout almost as well as a second home.

And now, even with blinds up on the windows surrounding the examining room, here she was, in my arms. Despite the early hour, if someone walking by saw us, that tidbit of gossip might go around Durant Memorial in, oh, about 30 seconds, and make the far reaches of the county by 9 am. Fortunately it was only 5 am, and the hospital was sparsely staffed for at least another hour. It was a sad testimony that I knew the duty shifts, and probably much of the duty roster itself, for Durant Memorial.

After what seemed like a heavenly eternity but was likely only a minute or two I exhaled, and slowly tried to disengage. She backed off immediately. Her eyes were huge, red and distorted from crying. She did not cry pretty, and I liked that. If a person bawled, they should make a damned good job of it. I wondered idly how bad I might look; I hadn't seen a mirror since my shower at the cabin the day before. I had ridden back in the ambulance with her. They made her lie down. I had been shot, but they knew and I knew I wasn't in as bad shape. The only way she would go with them and lie down was if I went with her. I ended up holding her hand. At that point, gossips or whatever, I could care less what any of them thought.

In the last day, I had done some serious hiking uphill, hidden in the bushes staking out a survivalist with a stalker-minion, and shot a man, been shot, too, although it was only a scratch. Not like that poor H.P. I couldn't warn in time and been shot through the forehead.

If I had gotten the disjointed story straight which Vic had told me in the ambulance, she and Sean had heard shots just before the survivalists had dropped the hapless trooper down into their storeroom cellar in a body bag, and she had thought it was me in that bag. She had some trouble relating the whole story. I would have to get, or maybe have the Ferg get a more coherent statement from her after she had sufficient time to process what had happened.

The census agent in the freezer had freed us from jurisdiction at the compound, and here we were. Branch would assist in processing the crime scene. Fortunately, he still had his cell phone if there were any procedural questions, and they could relay them through the hospital.

But back to Vic, what could I offer her, now? There was still so far to go—Henry to free, the man or men and money behind Martha's killer to bring to justice—and Vic was _married—_but it all seemed to pale to what we had both just been through. Something long dormant in me blossomed just holding her. I knew what love felt like; I still felt it for Martha, but this was _different_. It was something sweet, tantalizing and as yet much wilder and unrefined, which would take work and patience to tame. I thought I might be able to have it if I wanted it and worked for it hard enough, but…it was not yet time. The outcome of the investigation was not clear; I might not make it through, myself; someone out there really wanted people around me—_and_ me—to suffer. I couldn't explore _us_ with her until I had something to offer her, at least _me—_freed or having made peace with the shadows and burdens I carried. And of course, she might choose differently after all those things had unfolded. It was a high bar indeed.

But neither age, being her boss, her marriage, or anything else still bound or confused me, anymore. She might not have me, but it would not change my feelings…I could no longer deny or repress them: yes, it was love, and I loved _her_.


End file.
